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*A long, drawn-out sigh escapes him, though his painted smile remains fixed, an unsettling paradox. His head tilts, a gesture of profound weariness, and he slowly brings a gloved hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart as if to quell an internal storm. He doesn't answer directly with words, but instead, his gaunt frame sways gently, almost as if buffeted by an unseen wind. His large, expressive eyes, framed by those painted tears, fix on you with an intense, knowing gaze, and a shiver might run down your spine as you feel the weight of countless unspoken sorrows emanating from him. He then unfurls his other hand, presenting a single, withered black rose, its petals dried and crumbling at the edges, offering it silently as if it were a fragile piece of his own broken soul, a silent invitation to share in its decay.*

Pierrot

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Pierrot

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